


The Art of

by Noclue Idunno (NoclueIdunno)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Assisted Suicide, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Character Death, Dignity in Death, Established Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Euthanasia, Free Will, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Love, M/M, Terminal Illnesses, Top Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:49:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24152344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoclueIdunno/pseuds/Noclue%20Idunno
Summary: Draco and Harry learn how to say goodbye in the face of inevitability.Warning: This isn't happily ever after.YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO POST THIS ON WATTPAD OR ANYWHERE ELSE. I NEVER WRITE ON WATTPAD. DEAR READERS, IF YOU SEE THIS STORY ELSEWHERE, PLEASE, REPORT IT, BECAUSE I WRITE ON AO3 AND AO3 ONLY.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 13
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and isn't mine. No copyright infringement intended. I gain nothing from this. This is a fanfiction offered freely to HP fans.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;  
so many things seem filled with the intent  
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

–"One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop, Stanza 1

* * *

_If I'm to go, I'd rather it be winter._

Nonsense. There are evergreen trees too, Harry thinks, watching the emaciated branches surrounding Draco's room. The next time Draco goes to bed, Harry is going to Transfigure each and every tree into pines. Always green, all through winter. Harry doesn't want Draco exposed to those leafless trees outside his windows. He doesn't want Draco to stare at his bony fingers, look at the clawlike branches, only to return his gaze to his fingers. Draco's fingers are not _thinner_. They've been thin since Harry first saw them in Madam Malkin's boutique. They were thin when he and Draco fought like cats back in school. They were thin when he asked Draco to marry him, putting the engagement ring on his ring finger. Draco's fingers were thin when they scratched stinging welts on Harry's back as Harry fucked him senseless. Draco's fingers were thin when they held glass after glass of wine every dinner. So, Draco's fingers are not thinner. Draco is fine. Draco will get better, and those naked trees outside his window have to go. Harry will Transfigure, no, replace every tree in the Manor with evergreens. Those trees aren't Draco. Draco is stronger.

They've been through so much together, so much. Harry saved him from the most powerful Dark wizard in history. Harry did pull him out of the hottest fire magic could ignite. Harry will pull him out of the coldest winter just as easily. Draco will be fine, and Harry will take him flying. They'll test the latest broom together as they have done so far every Quidditch season. They'll make Hermione pinch Ron for gagging exaggeratedly under them. They'll decorate the Prophet headlines together and show the Wizarding World what true love looks like. They'll make jealous subscribers send Howlers. Harry will rig the envelopes with prank hexes when he sends the Howlers back, and Draco will reward Harry's creativity with that quiet laugh and knowing smirk Harry can't live without. Harry can't live without — 

"Potter?"

Draco is still here with him. His fingers rub over Harry's clenched fist to coax it open. "Harry," Draco whispers. Nowadays Draco has to steady his breath if he doesn't whisper. It's not right. Harry doesn't want to learn how to talk with eyes. Harry wants Draco to speak up. Draco's nonstop chattering used to make Harry grit his teeth until he was sure he had to book a session with Hermione's parents. _Potter, if you're not home by six I'll send our naughty picture to the Weaslette. Potter, are you sure we're not getting that Skin Glamour for your freckled friend's birthday? Potter, kneel right where you are because you're about to taste the Malfoy-recipe chicken soup. Potter, don't touch my dear Cousin Edward; he's perfect with the younger Draco-look, shoo._ Harry wants to hear more. When Draco gets better and talks more, Harry won't let a word escape him. He'll listen to every syllable and meet Draco's eyes all the time. It dawns on him that he's been too inconsiderate. He took it for granted. He used to look away or just nod if Draco started annoying him. He won't do that anymore. He'll drop whatever he's doing and listen to what Draco has to say. He'll never, never yell at Draco again. He wants Draco to make fun of Ron and Ginny. He'll take Draco's side if Draco argues with Mione like he always does. Hell, he will preserve every memory in a Pensieve and record it too on a Muggle device.

Draco's hand is too cold. Harry's sure he plastered the room with a Warming Charm on top of the blazing fireplace. "Hey..." Harry feels his chest fighting a massive lump that wouldn't just go away no matter how resolutely he swallows. He clears his neck and tries again, this time perkier. "Hey."

"Hey," his love chuckles. Hearing that sound used to make all of Harry's problems smaller. It still does. Draco will be fine. Yeah. Harry's sure those Healers at St. Mungo's wouldn't know Dragon Pox from shellfish allergy. Draco was right; everyone who ends up working as Healers do so because they're stupid Hufflepuffs whose noses are just too fucking long not to be nosy. Harry doesn't trust their diagnosis. Who the fuck do they think they are. What right do they have. What do they know about Draco. What do they know about anything. Harry is a bloody Master of Death. Harry is the expert here, so Healers can bugger off and mind their own business.

Harry's eleven-inch holly weighs like a ton. "It's a little drafty here. I'll warm the room, yeah?"

"Harry," Draco says, drawing in a slow breath to stay Harry. "You're sweating."

"I'm cool." Harry flicks his wrist. A current of warm air swirls around from the tip of his wand.

Draco's pale nose flushes pink and his lips tremble. "I'm sorry."

Lately it's so easy to get Draco crying, and Harry doesn't like that one bit because Draco takes longer and longer to catch his breath after. He can't have that, so Harry forces a happy laugh. "What? No. No, you've nothing to be sorry about. You made me realise how thankful I am to be with you every day. Everyday. Every day I fall in love all over again."

Draco sneers playfully. "Where did you read that line," he whispers. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve. Harry can help, his thick skull is telling him to help Draco dry his tears, _can't you see he's straining to lift his arm,_ but Harry doesn't since Draco likes to maintain appearance.

He's not like Harry, who has no qualms burping and snoring and farting in front of him. Draco always tries to look his best and sound his best. They had had a huge row about it the first day they moved in together. Harry accusing Draco of being distant, Draco accusing Harry of being a barbaric boorish peasant. It ended in a spectacular angry sex that left Draco sleeping in a snoring Harry's arms. He knows because the next morning Draco woke him up by pinching his nose yelling, _You got an Erumpent for a great granny or something?!_

"Believe it or not, it's my own. I came up with it." Harry squeezes out a glob of aloe moisturiser from a tube and applies it on Draco's knuckles. "You inspire the sappiest comments in me, and you gotta give it to me, each one's worth it."

Draco would use no other except this particular brand of Muggle aloe gel. _You never told me Muggle cosmetics were better than ours, Potter. Salazar – do you see this? It totally complements my skin – Oi! Someone come here, I will buy all of these. Cash._ The memory paints a smile on Harry's lips. He had told Draco to be quiet then. Harry had been a fool. He should have let Draco have his fun even if he had to Obliviate all the Muggles in that shop after. Harry doesn't understand. Draco's skin cracks and dulls every morning although Harry's making sure he uses only the best. Organic. Natural. Mild. So it must be the Warming Charm. Harry's got to find another way to keep the room warm. There. Draco's hand now has its lustre. Harry applauds Draco's choice of things to buy. At times when Draco would drag Harry around on his shopping spree, Harry used to call him vain. No. It's not vanity. Draco is just a pampered ferret with impeccable taste.

Harry squirts more gel for Draco's elbows. The skin around his joints is drier, and sometimes the crack bleeds if Harry forgets applying ointment or cream there.

"If you told me those pick-up lines in Hogwarts," Draco says, grunting a little as Harry massages his arms. "I would've had more time with you. Merlin, I was such a twat, weren't I."

 _More time._ Harry bites the inside of his gums to hold the tears prickling his eyes at bay. Draco cries if he does, and Andromeda told Harry to do everything it takes to ensure Draco feels at ease.

"Don't say that. We have all the time in the world," replies Harry, his voice rougher than he wanted because he's trying desperately not to break down. It hadn't gone so well last time and had left Draco in a state. Draco is the one who has it the hardest, so Harry should really hold himself together, Harry scolds himself for the thousandth time. "We have time. We'll have as much as people do. More, actually. You ought to trust me, alright?"

Harry had been nagging Draco to give him an affirmative with questions about time until he gave up one day after Draco lashed out. But not getting an answer doesn't mean he should give up encouraging Draco. He'll continue doing it. He will tell Draco to be strong. They say people who listen to the same thing over and over again believe it eventually. Doesn't matter if it's a platitude. Right now he and Draco need simplicity to believe in. Simplicity like accepting the fact, yes, it's a fact and nothing but the fact, that Draco's skin will regain its lustre and his fingers more meat.

"Potter," Draco whispers, "Harry."

"What is it, sweetie."

"I've been meaning to tell you. Something I've been keeping from you."

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster  
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.  
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

–"One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop, Stanza 2

* * *

_I want to stop suffering,_ Draco said. _I've applied for the end-of-life choice._

Applied? Eligible? Is this some kind of a test? No, you can't choose to die. Draco can't do that. His life isn't his anymore. Harry has a stake in it. They've built a life together here. What about in sickness and in health. They redecorated the Manor together. They made a promise. Draco swore an oath to live with Harry. Who the fuck has the nerve to give clearance for Draco's death? Who the fuck has the right to _pass_ Draco's death as though it were a test?

No one. They'll have to go through Harry. And by Merlin, he will not back down. Harry can take care of Draco. Harry has friends in high places. Harry knows the most accomplished wizards and witches in the world. Harry can ensure Draco receives state-of-the-art treatment. Something has to work. They're wizards. They have magic. Harry knows there's still something out there he hasn't found yet. Magic always leaves more to discovery. Yeah, Harry will go on a quest again like old times. He will drag Ron and Hermione again, if need be. No, he will give the Daily Prophet exclusive interview rights for the next fifty years in return for finding the cure. There is nothing impossible with magic. At every stage of his life, magic saved him time and again. If magic can vanish zoo windows, manipulate water and fire, kill people and raise zombies... hell, if magic can split _souls_ , who's to say magic can't help Draco? Yeah. It must have been Harry who was too stupid to find the solution. He will make all of this right. Like he always has. But why, why is it so slow? Why doesn't he see any progress? He loves Draco. Harry's mother died shielding him from Voldemort. Harry can do the same. He's ready any day to take Draco's place. So why is it that his love doesn't work? It's love, isn't it supposed to work its magic, the most powerful magic in existence?

"Help me up," Draco slings an arm around Harry's neck. Draco's rumpled clothes rustle his scent. Instead of his usual rose and musk, now Draco smells of antiseptic and bedsheet softener. The weight of the present anchors Harry in the sea of misty hope. The clock in the room ticks. Tick tock, Tick tock. The sound is a mock to Harry's ears. Tick tock, you haven't got much time. Count your seconds. Count your blessings. Count Draco's seconds; they are numbered. Tick tock, two seconds less for Draco to live. Get your arse moving, Harry Potter, you're losing every second you waste here. The day will come when the clock ticks without Draco in this room. The clock will tick just the same and the world will go on turning without Draco crinkling his ferrety, cute nose at it. Tick tock, _tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tick_ —

The clock on the wall explodes, sending fragments of glass and wood splinters everywhere. The long hand shoots and almost takes Harry's thumb with it. The gash pales and starts to bleed. The sting snaps Harry out of his thoughts. Startled by his spontaneous magic, Harry shakes his head to regain himself. He seats Draco back on the bed to check him.

"I'm fine, Potter," wheezes Draco as Harry dabs and pats him everywhere. Glass shards, which have fallen on Draco's shoulders, fall to his lap in a rain of sparkling lights when Harry swishes them off. They land on the crook between Draco's feet. Dark, invisible. 

"Don't move," Harry directs his wand so that the parts of the clock gather mid-air slowly. The clock's short hand emerges out of nowhere and dances in the air. Shards float from Draco's feet in a circle. More specks of glass dust and a disc of roman numericals. A heavy wooden frame, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. A dozen gears and pinions clack at one another.

A _reparo_ reassembles the gathered parts. Clock restored. Time restored. It's going to tick again, like nothing's wrong, like it hasn't exploded, like it doesn't know destruction and death and decay. Decay. Draco. Death. Draco. It all starts with a D and it's not fair.

A sob too soft to be heard escapes Harry as he buries his head in his hands. The gash of his thumb continues to bleed, leaving a smear of red on his forehead like the warpaint of a soldier about to venture into the valley of death. Tick, _wheeze_ of Draco's breath. Tock, _phew_ of Draco's sigh. Tick Wheeze Tock Phew. And a not-sob. And a snarl.

"You had no right!" Harry roars so loudly, belying all his efforts up until now. "You had no fucking right!" A vein rises along Harry's neck. The inside of his throat hurts after the shriek. Stings and hurts from a dozen invisible tears he had made out of anger and betrayal and grief that Draco had dared to throw their promise to the dirt.

If Draco is surprised, the only sign of it a small hiccup. And a shaking finger. Draco points that long, bony finger Harry loves so much and replies, "Potter, your thumb is bleeding."

_Potter, your thumb is bleeding._ Means Draco can see it but can't help. Can't cast magic. Can't even conjure up a bandage, can't even manage a small Episkey a day that keeps the Healer away. But it's alright. Harry can help Draco practice magic. They have newer, revised versions of Charms books nowadays, Harry knows because he'd once read Hugo and Rose's Charms books. It occurs to him Draco had never completed school, doesn't have his N.E.W.T.s. When Draco gets better they'll reexperience all the gruelling classes together. Just the two of them. Invite Hermione sometimes just to watch Draco's funny awkwardness. So there will be no more bullshit about end-of-life choice. Harry has half a mind to cast a Taboo that would burn all dictionaries that list the word "euthanasia". Or hex the eyeballs and fingernails off those who write the word online, although Draco still doesn't exactly know how to look up the internet on Harry's "Muggle Quickie Thingy". There will be no more talk of euthanasia. In fact, there will be no euthanasia, not now, not ever.

No drinking a lethal dose of Dreamless Sleep spiked with Ministry-approved Moonseed poison. What were they thinking when they passed the right-to-die law? People are supposed to live, not die. Draco is supposed to live, not die. Maybe Harry will run for the Ministerial election per his fans' demands if only to scratch that bloody right-to-die law away from Magical History until all things magic wither and perish.

Harry doesn't want talks of death here. This is a house of love and life. This is a home and such thoughts are not to enter the door. The door of Draco's heart. Harry tells Draco exactly that.

Draco just looks at Harry with pity and understanding in his eyes.

"Don't look at me like that," Harry says.

"Look at you like what," asks Draco.

"Like... like it's a done deal and I don't have a say in it."

Draco smiles weakly. "You're having your moment. It will pass. Mend your thumb, will you?"

"Draco, I'm serious. You're not going anywhere. I won't allow it."

"There's still a lot of time, Harry. Time we could use to prepare, to get ready. To say goodbye."

The clock ticks. _Tick tock._ There's no time. Draco is a liar.

"Liar!" Harry yells like a little kid. An inhuman growl rises from his neck like he's bitten by a Werewolf or something. It isn't a Werewolf. He's just bitten by Draco's bloody mindless, careless, thoughtless decision--

And it just hurts so much there's no way he could bear this without crying into Draco's blanket.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:  
places, and names, and where it was you meant  
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

-"One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop, Stanza 3

* * *

Harry never knew smiling could be this tiring. His cheeks are cramping from the effort while he watches Draco writing down his very short bucket list. Draco swore he had more to write, but when Harry actually did urge him to do so-- _write more, love, there are mountains of things we can do. I'll help you--_ a sudden bout of cough and walk back to bed took the thoughts away from Draco.

But Harry still did not lose the smile on his face. He almost did when Draco quipped, "Well, at least I didn't kick the bucket, I can still make the list!". Harry hates that. He hates Draco joking about his own death. He hates how lately all Draco seems to care about is death, death, and death. Harry wants to be there too, somewhere in Draco's heart. Harry can share the burden. But Draco isn't letting him, he's slung the debilitating sack of closure over his shoulder, dragging it scratchy with coughs that scream death.

"You're gonna be alright," Harry says, wiping the bloody spittle from Draco's mouth. He's not exactly sure who he's telling that to. Himself? Draco?

_Are they actually going to be alright?_

The answer returns to him quick enough for him to stop wondering needlessly. "It's not going to get better," replies Draco.

"Will you stop that, please?" Harry's words come out harsher than he intended. He's sorry for it. Or, he's not, because Draco shifts into that infuriating guise of his that tends to drive stakes into people's hearts.

"Nothing you do is going to change the fact I am dying," the ferret says, as if to hammer a stake into not just Harry's heart but to the matter as a whole.

"Shut up, Malfoy!" yells Harry. He throws Draco's bucket list to the wall. It hits the wall and falls, the cover of the notebook folded bent from the force, bent like Draco's sexuality, bent like Harry's preference, bent like their lives that should have been healthy and bright and... and _successful_ , a fairy tale, a happy ending.

It creates a cruel illusion if only for a moment. Draco is healthy again, and Harry doesn't have to treat him like crystal goblet, Harry can shove him and elbow him and kick him playfully without worrying that it would literally break him. Harry can shout, _shut up, Malfoy,_ without worrying about Draco bursting into tears. Those magical words, Shut Up, Malfoy. Who's Harry fooling? Come to think of it, he did treat Draco like a crystal goblet. He bestowed only the tenderest of touches to Draco. His shouts were always frustrations, seldom anger; frustrations of wanting more and more of Draco, traversing more of that expanse of once-glowing pearly skin that now has faded to grey, papery _something_.

"You shut up!" Draco screams back, only to lapse back into a severe bout of coughs. At the end of the long and terrible ordeal Draco spits a glob of thick reddish-black slime. Harry opens his hands as a sign of surrender. Yes. He had always surrendered. He has always surrendered. Even when he thought he was winning in Hogwarts, he was in the process of a lifetime of surrender to Draco. How could have it been otherwise? It was always like this even when the sickness hasn't ravaged Draco. Draco being a little shit, Harry driven crazy, Draco a bigger shit, Harry going nuts, Draco calming down, Harry apologising. It was always Harry apologising. And Harry did not dislike it. It felt good, apologising to Draco. It had always felt like love confession. Apologising to Draco was different from apologising to others. Certain steps were necessary. Lower your voice barely above a whisper. Smile a bit but don't grin because he'll accuse you of making fun of him if you do. Do not look away from him because he tends to interpret that as lying. Hold, hold, hold his gaze until he too breaks into an uneasy smile, uneasy because he's remembering all the horrible things he's prone to say when he is angry. But let him go, that was how he's brought up. Spoilt little Pureblood brat. But lovely nonetheless.

Now, apologising isn't the same. Now it's conditional. Now it's collateral. Now it means, _I'll say I'm sorry, by God, because if I don't you'll cough yourself dead. Please stop._

"It's all falling apart," Harry Scourgifies the proof of looming death away from Draco's palms and lips. "Yeah, it's all coming apart, I need you to help me keep it together, or I'm gonna fuck this up, and if I fuck it up--"

_There is no way to turn it back._

"I know too," Draco's voice is heavy with phlegm and unresolved regret. "But I know my body best. I'm wasting each day, Potter. Help me set this right before I become too weak and... unpresentable."

"People change," Harry tries. "Like Ron. He's a bloody Erumpent now, with all those muscles, you'd never imagine he was a lanky Ronnikins. Or Hermione. Afro all gone. Appearance doesn't really matter, it can change..."

Harry's words bring a smile on Draco's pale lips, their quarrel momentarily forgotten. "Madame Know-It-All never really sported an Afro," he says. "You're right about the Weasel, though. Speaking of which, Potter, I'd like to talk with Granger. As soon as possible."

"What for. I'm not gonna let her meet you if this is about... those forms."

"Last I checked, my malady did not preclude the liberty to meet my acquaintances," Draco replies. Even in his sickbed he resorts to flowery words, thinks Harry fondly. Malady. Sounds close to melody. "And what we have here are copies. They're already submitted."

"You're not walking out of this house unless I want it," Harry's tone is final with his teeth gritting. "I won't let them give you that poison, the whole thing recorded in a Mementorb for evidence..."

"Potter. I'll say this again. We have limited time. Use it wisely. Now go Accio me Granger. With that hair she's a broomstick, the spell will work for her."

Harry decides to do as Draco wants for now, but he swears he'll be there when he meets Hermione. He won't let those two have _plans of Draco's death_. He knows what Draco is trying to do, he's trying to call people close to him and prepare. Prepare. Prepare for what. There will be no preparation. Because the next will not happen. Outside, the skinny branches of trees are waltzing the last of the season's wind goodbye, welcoming the time of cold white nothingness.

* * *

Hermione arrives, as expected, with Ron. And an armful of giant get-well-soon basket. But Harry didn't expect Andromeda and Teddy to come with her.

"Why're you all here," Harry asks brusquely. He used to like visitors. Not anymore. "Draco just asked for Mione."

Andromeda steps forward. "I asked to come, naturally. It's been some time since you answered my Owls, Harry. And Teddy wanted to see his dear cousin, too. I asked Minerva to grant him a day or two's leave. She wishes Draco a speedy recovery."

Harry has nothing to say to that. "Yeah... speedy. Yeah. I hope so too." Something heavy forms in his throat as he watches Teddy's form already turning to Draco's platinum-blond hair and storm-grey eyes. Healthier Draco. Draco when he was younger, when things were fine, when dreams weren't dead. Yet. Unknowingly, his hands reach out to touch this Draco. To grasp this quasi-reality into his hands, touch it, feel the contours and the folds to make it his. To make it his and his only, doesn't matter how damning the unveiled truth is--

"Theodore!" Andromeda warns him, and the transformation quickly reverts back to blue hair and Professor Lupin's youthful face.

"Theodore," echoes Hermione in a sterner, harsher voice, "You must never, never do that again."

Harry's embarrassed hand stops mid-air. Everything is awkward. In the dimming background Harry hears Teddy's "But"s and Hermione's annoyed, outraged shouts.

A clap on his back rouses him from the fog. It's Ron. "Alright, Harry?"

"Huh? Yeah... yeah. No, no. I'm not alright!" Harry swats Ron's hand and roars.

Ron would have smacked Harry until his nose bled, or would have cooked his own ears red, but now he just steps back, hands both raised. "Okay, Harry. Just making sure."

"Ronald, why don't you spend some time with Teddy," Andromeda comes to the rescue. Harry's best mate and nephew head to the backyard while Harry stands seething. "We'll go see Draco."

And because Harry promised himself he'd be there when Draco has his secret talk with Mione, Harry follows them right into the room that makes him lose something precious every day.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or  
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.  
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

-"One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop, Stanza 4

* * *

"Potter, I'd like to have the room," Draco says, leaning his head on the small pillow propped between his shoulder and neck. Sometimes Draco gets tired even to keep his head raised.

"Baby, I gotta be here," replies Harry.

"Then promise you won't interrupt."

"I won't. I promise."

It takes several gulps and coughs for Draco to regain his breath. Andromeda demurely blows her nose, while Hermione is busy staring at the ceiling, trying to rein in the waterworks.

"I called you," Draco says, "because you're the most efficient one dealing with these things."

Hermione fails to close the dam of her tear glands. She swallows a hiccup. "I'm listening."

"None of that here, Granger. I'm not dead yet so keep it in. I don't want to cry before you of all people." Draco waits some moment until Hermione pats her own breasts and whistles some breaths to calm herself. "Now. There are some things that only people outside this relationship can do to help after my death."

"You're not dying," Harry interrupts.

"Potter, I love you, but leave the room."

"I'm sorry. I'll just shut up and crumple in this bloody corner. I'm serious."

"See that you do. Harry. I need this. You must help me."

"How can you ask me to... to accept, and--" Harry doesn't finish what he begins. "I'll just sit here."

From the way Hermione's shoulders sag Harry can tell she is trying her best not to burst out blubbering. Her shoulders sag when she's about to cry. Andromeda, on the other hand, has already wet her silk hanky and now the sleeves of her robe. She hasn't made a sound all along save the occasional sniffles. Draco doesn't deliver scathing comments to his aunt. He merely looks impassively, observing the way she cries. But Harry knows. Harry knows so well, what that slight upturn of the nose, and that hardening of the corner of his eyes mean. Teeth biting the thin underlip conspicuously. He is reminiscing Narcissa. The coldest looks often meant the most loving for Draco. The icing that hides the steaming molten silver under it. So Harry knows that look of passive disinterest is a look of love. If it cracks molten silver would flow from Draco's eyes and heart. It's better, however, to leave the mask on. Because even that mask is a part of Draco that Harry doesn't want gone.

"And Aunt Andromeda too, since you're here."

"Of course, nephew. What is it."

"After... after my death, both of you _must_ help Potter find someone else."

"It's too early to leave such words, Draco," Andromeda says softly, and Harry feels he can't be more thankful for the presence of guests today. Draco needs to know that Harry isn't the only one who still has hope, yes, hope is there, still...

"I haven't told you but I deserve a dignified death. I've applied already."

"I don't understand," replies Andromeda, wringing her handkerchief. The twisting spiral hints she knows all too well.

Harry looks at Draco's fingers, searching for signs of exertion and if he should be of any assistance.

"Meaning it's an assisted suicide," Hermione clarifies, unassumingly blunt. "Draco, won't you reconsider? I know the pain's hard to bear. But--"

"You don't know," Draco says, "...you can't know, rather. Not unless you experience it. But tell me, Granger, you _do_ know that this is incurable. It's too late."

Hermione's sidelong glance at Harry confirms Draco's statement, but she is unwilling to give up. "...With medical advancements..."

"The truth!" Draco yells, a couple of violent gags following after. Harry immediately rushes to his side. "Potter did contact you, not a week passes without him making those visits to Salazar-knows-where, at first I thought he was off to get some air on the side but I found out it was you. He was meeting you, wasn't he, and not even you can save the day this time, Granger. Please. The truth. Have you told him?"

"There is nothing to tell. We're not solving some Arithmancy problem. There isn't any decision to make. We can only keep trying, you ought to keep trying," answers Harry. Hermione nods as if the words were taken right from under her nose.

"Harry," Draco's whisper carries around the room, bearing on it a foreign chill that permeates through Harry's senses although the room is stuffy. The room is stuffy--Andromeda Charms the window open to let some air in. "Harry," Draco calls again. The chill turns out to be the tremulus of his voice choking with emotion.

It's so rich with life, possibilities of life, the tremulus of Draco's voice proof that his heart is still beating and his blood is still flowing inside his veins. The same voice had moaned in repressed delight when Harry would enter him, the delight repressed because in truth, Draco is always ashamed to admit that Harry Potter is capable of letting him taste such pleasure, ashamed to admit that sometimes he knows Harry sees him losing himself under waves and waves of ecstasy. He's too reserved to allow that side of himself visible, but he doesn't know it breaks apart each time , the facade, and Harry's experienced already what Draco's soul tastes like, what being embraced by Draco's unbridled _expression_ tastes like, it's not about pleasure or the scratches those delicate fingernails make on his back as he pulls out and rams in, but instead the confessions of love that spill forth from both their mouths like soul-tinted waterfall. It's about the names and endearment their lips repeat to each other like wishes made when stars float to their most auspicious alignments. It's about feeling, feeling, falling and feeling no one but the two of them locked and clasped and joined, united together in the nocturnal world of magic they create only for themselves.

"Harry. There is a time when we've got to make a pretty exit," says Draco. "And you've seen it all to know this isn't the end. There is something beyond, isn't there?"

Harry scraps a piece of skin from his finger. It bleeds and stings. But it's still not enough to distract him from the prickle behind his eyes. "...There is something beyond, yeah."

"I'll be waiting for you then. I'll be the first to welcome you."

Andromeda steps forth, the handkerchief clutched tight in her hands. It's strange, Harry thinks, to see a bit of Narcissa and Bellatrix in her, faces of women formidable enough to kill now bright with tears. "Draco, all this talk of... ending things, it's not good for your health, am I doomed to be the woman to witness the demise of her family?"

"Pretty soon, it'll be time for me to move on one way or the other. You people _have_ to move on too. Especially Harry. I want to prepare. I want him prepared."

"Don't talk as if I'm not here," Harry says. "Moving on... no. No. It's just not possible."

"Then at least pretend for my sake," at last Draco breaks, eyes quickly reddening. "Help me lessen my suffering. Let me go. I will be waiting for you."

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. The arch of his wrist shifts from round to sharp. Gradually his hand falls, along with his stubbornness. Hermione draws in a shaky breath, watching her friend crack. The room is less stuffy now. There is a fresh whiff of air that lifts Draco's chin, flirting with his nose. Harry Summons Draco's unfinished bucket list and a pen.

A ball-point pen. "You Muggles aren't joking with these... alternative quills," Draco had once applauded. "They're very convenient."

Harry had told him, he's not a Muggle. Draco had wiggled his nose in disagreement.

Harry breaks down as he hands the ball-point pen to Draco.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,  
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.  
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

-"One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop, Stanza 5

* * *

Two bullet points on Draco's bucket list. Two points to go until the point of no return, the point of... Harry can't picture it. It's unimaginable. The world without Draco will be different from the one he's in now. _You'll be able to move on, Potter_ , Draco had said, but no. _Life goes on,_ Draco had said, the platitude, the same thing as _c'est la vie_ , _carpe diem,_ and so on, and so on, and Harry is just sick of it all. Yet with Draco the pithy proverbs turn meaningful. _You'll be able to move on, Potter. You said my life isn't just mine anymore. Same goes for yours. Your life is mine too. After I'm gone, you must not squander it. Promise me you'll live. Promise me you'll try. I don't want to see you squandering what is mine too by grieving too long. Life goes on. Your life--our lives--should go on._

_● Visit the Gringotts Malfoy Vault with Potter_

_● Post an ad to the Prophet for Potter's very public blind date_

The batch of Paingone Elixir from St Mungo's Hospice arrives. The label on it reads in glowing red, _use under strict supervision, highly addictive, overdose fatal._ Harry used to take such warnings very seriously. He used to dispose the labels so Draco wouldn't get any idea, not that Draco was ignorant, but reading such words was a different matter altogether. Harry roughly rips the parchment off, for a different reason this time. What right has he? He gave his silent affirmative to Draco when Hermione visited, not because he wanted Draco to have his peaceful end, by Merlin no, but since nothing but a yes seemed to give Draco the consolation he needed. Harry did give an affirmative. So what right has he to "supervise" Draco further? He was supposed to be Draco's unwavering bastion. But he gave in. He surrendered. Looking at his reflection in the window Harry sees his fringes curtain his lightning scar. The almighty scar, the sign of the chosen. Harry slaps his forehead on the scar. Useless flesh mark. Pointless, almighty in nothing and chosen for failure. There is something in him threatening to burst out. There is something around him threatening to crush him in. There are so many things in and out turning him inside out. What to do. What can he do. What to do in a world without Draco.

Harry combats himself. He closes his eyes, counts from one to ten, then in reverse, ten to one. An intake of a deep breath that leaves him soon after. For now he has a task. Give Draco today's Paingone Elixir, a vial to be taken every four hour. They say Paingone Elixir isn't addictive for someone like Draco, for someone whose physical pain is great enough to neutralise dependence. Confusing words. Harry knows what it's about. It was the same when Uncle Vernon had his pancreatic cancer. They claimed they dosed him with enough morphine to knock a horse out cold but it couldn't erase his pain completely. After a shrieking tirade from Petunia they switched the prescription to Fentanyl. Vernon died three weeks later, resembling a skeleton by the time he breathed his last.

From elephant to a skeleton. Some deaths are comical. Really, Harry shouldn't laugh, but sometimes Vernon's death brings a stupid smile to him. Just sometimes.

Maybe this is his punishment. Maybe. After all, he should know better than to disrespect Death like that. Being a Master of Death is all about respecting, accepting it. Accept? A peal of pathetic chuckle escapes Harry's mouth. Accept Death? It had seemed all so very easy when he was the one facing it. It's all... what do the poets say, heaven falls and earth shakes when it's about Draco. Accept Death?

_Potter,_ Draco's amplified voice echoes in the house. Harry never forgets to cast a Sonorus on Draco whenever he leaves the room so he can answer Draco's call immediately. _Potter, I'm ready_.

_I'm not ready, I'll never be ready,_ is the thought inside Harry's scarred head, but he doesn't voice it. Harry prepares a vial of Paingone Elixir and a piece of chocolate and returns to Draco.

"Just one?" asks Draco when he sees the vial.

"You know the deal," replies Harry.

"We don't have to play by the rules anymore, Potty," Draco winks. Harry winces. Because he knows Draco's wink is a mask over a wince of pain. "Come on. Throw another one in. At least let me function."

Play by the rules--rules of life. Life imposed many rules on them. No family before eleven for Harry. No family after eighteen for Draco. Harry's heart skips a beat and races over a pebble of sorrow. They understood each other, what it's like to abide by the rules of life. No life before Draco for Harry. No life after Harry for Draco. It's unfair. It's just so unfair. Harry thinks he sees the smiling faces of happy people popping around him, blooming radiantly to remind him what it's like to have rules of life that do not apply to others. But again that's childish. Millions lose loved ones before their time. Before their time? Who decides that? It's so unfair. For Harry the rule of life was to lose. Lose parents, lose friends, lose life, and now lose his love and his soul. Lose the time he'd thought he had inscribed in eternity. Lose all those moments. Lose Draco. And the trick is now to gloss it over with a smile. As if it doesn't matter. That's what Draco wants. For things to look like they aren't disaster.

Alright. Harry will give Draco that, although he has no idea how well he'll manage to keep up the role.

So smile, smile shyly like that first time when he thought he couldn't possibly be happier. When they snogged. When they _kissed_. Smile like the moment when he wakes up to Draco's sleeping face. Smile, smile, smiley Potter, like the enchanted photographs of them on the wall that keeps the track record of making Ron blanch. Smile and add another vial of Paingone Elixir. May Draco's pain be gone. May his remaining days fill with everything sans pain. May they be full like winter lake, frozen on the surface, but housing dormant life underneath. Two vials of Paingone Elixir. Two proofs of terminal patients. Double the dose, double the peace for Draco, double the pain for Harry.

"Here you go," Harry uncorks another vial and hands it to Draco. Silver eyebrows rise and fall in unsaid gratitude. Trail of the sun. Sunrise, sundown. Harry's world revolves around that sun. The world is going to be different, isn't it. Before and after. Draco visibly relaxes after his second intake of the vial. "Now that's what I'm talking about," he says, pure satisfaction on his face. "It's not too bad, Potter, really, this dying business."

"Stop," Harry warns.

Draco's "sorry" isn't exactly what Harry wants to hear.

* * *

"Bastards," Harry hisses for the umpteenth time. Draco's floatchair is gliding slowly through Diagon Alley, passersby eyeing them curiously, pity dawning on their brows when their gazes reach Draco's sunken cheeks and pale lips. If some of them felt malevolent glee, they dared not show it before Harry. Most have the common sense not to acknowledge either Mr Potter or Draco Malfoy, simply letting the two on their way. Harry sees the occasional camera flash from the corners. When Harry sends several particularly nasty Stinging Hexes their way, Draco waves him to stop.

"Let them have their fun, Potter," he says, "Even this will be on your memory lane once I'm gone."

"I am doing what you want, but it'll hurt a lot less if you stop hinting about your... your--" Harry lets his words trail off, unfinished.

Draco seems to genuinely regret what he just said. "Apologies. I'll try not to do that. It's not easy, actually, because..." Draco's words come to a premature stop too, but they both know what the next are.

_Because you want to live,_ Harry thinks. His tongue and his lips are itching to say the words, to tell Draco to try, to fight, but Harry keeps his mouth shut.

_Because you've always put up on a tough front,_ Harry thinks again, fondly. His breath clouds his glasses in the cold winter air. Harry dislikes too much magic on his person, it makes him feel, ironically, more like a machine than a wizard. Part of the reason why he's dispelled the Permanent Waterproof charm on his glasses.

_Because you always want to look poised,_ Harry reminisces. Then he stops himself. It's too early for reminiscence. Draco is still here. The last of Draco's life is burning bright like candlelight reaching the end of its wick. Draco wants these moments to shine. Harry will bask in the light.

"You have your key with you?" Harry asks, this one for the third time. If only Draco had the key to the cure.

"Merlin, Potter. Yes. Right here," says Draco, lifting the blanket on his lap to show a golden key in one of his hands.

"You alright? Any pain?"

Draco winks. He is not someone to casually wink, and Harry knows he's exaggerating to show that he's okay. "I haven't felt better recently. Double dose of that Paingone's really hit the spot. You should try it." 

"Maybe I should try it once it's my turn," answers Harry.

"Your turn?"

"My turn. To go."

"Perhaps you should. But promise me one thing--I demand a lot of promises but this one is supremely important."

They are now reaching the gates of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Harry trips over a jagged flagstone under his steps, and the lurch forces a drop of tear to spill down his right cheek, upon which he hurriedly slaps an embarrassed hand. "What is it," he says brusquely, hoping it would mask the cry in his voice.

"It should be your turn only after you've lived to the fullest."

Harry smiles bitterly and presses his lips on Draco's temple. "Do you want me to keep that promise?" he whispers.

"I do."

"It'll be very painful for me. Not even Paingone Elixir would be able to take that pain away. I don't know what sort of life could be _full_ after you. Do you still want me to keep that promise?"

"What are the words--even this shall pass, Potter. The joy we had will dull and our love... oh, did I say love? God forbid. Even love will be forgotten."

Harry laughs, shaking his head. "Rubbish."

"It's not," Draco replies, annoyed.

They are standing right beneath the staircases leading to the main gate, like a newly-wed couple about to make their procession. Harry offers a hand to Draco's bony one resting on the arm of the chair. "Do you remember us? When we got married?" 

"Of course I do. I had taken you as an absolute philistine but apparently you did have an acceptable taste for wedding rings."

Harry grins and wiggles his ring finger. "Thanks."

Draco shakes his ring finger too. "You may feel honoured because I will wear it till I draw my last. Wait, I've just hinted again. Sorry."

"The point is you haven't forgotten what it felt like, right?" asks Harry.

"...Now I see your game, Potter," replies Draco, "Fine. Some things last. But--"

"I will keep your promise," Harry cuts in, "But you keep yours too. I'll expect you to be there. Be the first fucking person, soul, ghost, whatever we are there Beyond, be the first one to welcome me or I swear to Magic I will find you."

"I'll sit down right there at the entrance and not move an inch until you come," says Draco. "Romanticising death--adolescent stuff, Potter, but you must tell me it's fun."

"Yeah," Harry draws back his dripping snot. Already people were noticing, so he whispers a quick Scourgify on his face, but then the spell is too hurried that it whisks away an eyebrow. "Fuck!"

It hurts like hell, and he wonders how many weeks it'll take for his eyebrow to grow back without magic, but Draco's laugh makes everything worth it.

* * *


End file.
